A Last Breath
by Mysterylover17
Summary: The passing of a friend, the end of an era. Character death.


**AN: So, first I hope all had a wonderful holiday season. I've returned after a long hiatus. Writer's block, grad school and some personal issues have prevented me from writing and posting as often as I'd like. However, here is a brief one-shot, unless you tell me it should be continued. It's called "A Last Breath" and, I think, as you lovely readers can deduce, it has a character death. Despite it's darkness, I did find something uplifting about it at the end, even though I managed to cry while writing it. As usual, lovely readers, please do let me know what you think by Reading and Reviewing.**

* * *

"John dearest?" My wife's voice startled me so that I toppled the inkbottle as I attempted to remove my pen from it. With a mild oath, I quickly righted the bottle.

"Yes, what is it Anne?"

"A boy just came round with a telegram for you. He said it is most urgent."

Everything seemed urgent as of late. Ever since I had retired from active practice, my literary agent, Doyle, sent missives several times a day, begging me to quickly finish my latest installments for _The Strand._ "Come in then," I muttered with some heat.

"I do apologize for interrupting you John," Anne said as she entered my study. "I know you hate to be disturbed while you are writing."

I forced a smile, letting my wife know she had not angered me. "Give it here then," I said extending my hand to her. "Did the lad say who it was from?"

She shook her head, allowing her silvering tresses to move about like a lion's mane. It was, after all, quite late and there was no reason for her to keep her hair in the severe bun she wore daily. If I were a younger man, I do not doubt that a most urgent flash of desire would have stirred through me at that very moment as I stared at her. However, I was nearing five and sixty years of age and my health was slowly failing. I tired more easily and the simple pleasures a man is entitled to indulge in with his wife held less appeal for me then they had at one time.

"It's probably Doyle again," I grumbled as I tore open the envelope. "Sometimes I wonder if he will ever tire of pestering me."

Anne laughed, a hearty and heartwarming sound. "I sincerely doubt that prospect," she said with a smile. "You are too brilliant a writer to allow to fall by the wayside."

When my eyes fell upon the hastily written words, a chill suddenly struck my heart and I could not keep my hands from shaking. I must have turned extremely pale because my wife was suddenly at my side, griping my bicep tightly.

"John? John are you all right?"

I could only nod because I was suddenly incapable of speech. I stared at the letter for a long time, forgetting that my wife was standing beside me as my mind began to conjure up memories from my past, which I thought I had long ago buried.

Mary's face, quite suddenly, appeared before my mind's eye, but it wasn't an image that filled my heart with joy. Instead, her face was haggard and almost translucent, with her high cheekbones standing out like great mountains beneath her tightly drawn skin. Her pale blue eyes were the most lucid they had been in a long time. She was lying in our bed, the covers drawn up to her chin and a sheen of sweat broke out upon her forehead. She had long ago lost the strength to speak and her silent request for permission to be freed from the terrible pain she was in cut me to the core. I knew, if I refused her, she would try to keep to this earth as long as she physically could, but I also knew I could not torture her for my own selfish reasons. I watched myself mutter that I had loved her with all my heart and I remembered, quite distinctly the gentle squeeze she had given my hand. And then, just as quickly, she was gone.

A moment later, another image filled my mind, this one even darker then the first. I heard gunfire and the rumbling of cannons. A litter of dead and dying soldiers filled the ground, all of whom were in my regiment at Maiwand. The desert sands were red beneath the hot, unforgiving sun and the metallic smell of blood wafted into my nostrils on the faint breeze that deigned to move the otherwise stagnant air. I remembered the acute pain which filled all of my limbs and the utter helplessness which filled my heart as I watched my fallen comrades dying around me and knew I could do nothing to ease their nor my own pain. I took solace in the knowledge that I would soon be joining them.

"_He's dying Doctor Watson,"_ the voice was so unexpected that I was suddenly removed from Afghanistan and thrown into my own consulting room from years ago. I saw myself seated in my overstuff leather chair and saw an extremely agitated Mrs. Hudson seated across from my desk. Her eyes were red from crying and her words successfully managed to strike utter fear in my heart. "_For three days he has been sinking and I doubt if he will last the day."_

Then suddenly, swirling midst, and the rushing groans of an immense waterfall—

"John dear?" Someone was shaking me roughly by the shoulder, mercifully interrupting my morbid recollections. I shook my head hard enough to throw off my equilibrium and was much heartened to see that it was my own Anne standing before me rather then some distant phantom from the past. "John, whatever is the matter?"

I still could not speak, for fear of my voice breaking. I knew I had not spoken to him in some years, not since the Von Bork affair back in nineteen fourteen but I was certain we were close enough, despite our slight mutual estrangement, that I would have learned of the horror which had befallen him sooner then this! Instead of answering my wife, I continued to stare at the missive which I held in my shaking hands not quite wanting to believe it. Its contents, of course, were extremely terse and sorely lacked details buts its message was eerily familiar and managed to turn my blood to ice in my very veins. "He is deteriorating rapidly. Stop. Come at once. Stop. I doubt he will last the week. Stop."

"John?" Suddenly, my wife's cool hands were on either side of my face, holding me tightly and forcing me to look into her concerned filled green eyes. "John whatever is the matter?"

"I—I must get to Sussex at once," I muttered. Quickly, I rose and shoved her roughly aside. I was momentarily disoriented, and I staggered forward, as though I was a drunkard who had just recently been put out of his bar. "I—I must get to Sussex," I repeated and I fear my wife stared at me as though I had lost all of my wits.

"John whatever for? What's the matter? For God's sake tell me!"

"Holmes…it's—it's Holmes," I replied, hastily tossing books off the shelves in my study in effort to find my Bradshaw. "Where the devil—"

"John!" Quickly, my wife grabbed my arm, stopping me before I had the chance to destroy my entire study. If I possessed a clear, panic free mind, I would have seen my copy lying haphazardly atop a stack of papers on my desk where I had placed it earlier in attempt to find a train to Devonshire where I had promised my wife we would visit on a holiday after our son's upcoming nuptials.

"Anne I need to—"

"Right now you need to calm yourself," she said soothingly, "and tell me what has happened to Mr. Holmes."

"I don't bloody know what has happened to him!" It was difficult, in my panic, to keep myself from shouting at the woman I loved. "I don't know," I repeated more softly. Before she could ask another question, I handed her the telegram sent by Mycroft Holmes.

She read the fourteen words which had, so suddenly, changed my life and then, tightly grasped my hand, leading me back to my chair.

I heard the blood roaring in my ears and I felt, at that very moment, as though I was going to faint for the second time in my life. However, my wife was a quick-witted and, before the grey miasma swimming before my eyes completely engulfed me, a cool rag was on my forehead and a glass tumbler was at my lips. Without thinking, I opened them and shuddered when I felt the searing taste of brandy burn my gullet. I closed my eyes for a moment, to regain my equilibrium and, when I reopened them, the world was once again in focus.

"Anne, I—"

"Hush," she admonished gently. "Hold that in place," she said, carefully moving my hand to the cool compress she had against my forehead. From where she had gotten it so quickly, I had no idea, but I was not in the mood to question such trivial things. "You're not nearly as young as you used to be John, neither of us are," she amended with a smile that did not quite meet her eyes, "and your system cannot take the shocks it once did.

'We're not even certain something has happened to Mr. Holmes," she said as she poured me another glass of brandy from the decanter. "After all, your friend does have a quite the flair for the dramatic, if I recall correctly from your stories in the Stand. I believe you said he fooled you into thinking he was dying twice before. We must be certain, before any hasty arraignments are made, that this is not simply another one of his tricks."

I shook my head and instantly regretted the action. I did not realize how terribly my system had been upset by the devastating news. Once again I closed my eyes. "That message is not from him," I murmured, trying to keep my voice pitched low so as not to aggravate the headache which was looming in the back of my skull. "Not from him."

"Even still, you are not in the best of health yourself my dear," she said soothingly. "There really is no point in you traipsing about England with your heart because of Sherlock Holmes's perverse sense of—"

"That is enough!" The words roared out of me before I even realized I had spoken. They were so strong and masterful that even my wife jumped slightly at them. Never before, in my ken, did I miss my Mary so intently as I did at that moment. My Mary, who owed our very marriage to Sherlock Holmes, would not have stood pouring drinks, but would have, instead, run upstairs and started packing a carpetbag for me. "Regardless of what he's done in the past, I cannot risk disbelieving the telegram. He means too much to me."

Anne raised her eyebrows. "He means more to you then your own son's marriage? Need I remind you that he is getting married in two days time?"

I gritted my teeth. How did she expect me to care about my son's upcoming nuptials when my dearest friend might be, as I sat stupidly in my chair, fading from this very earth? There would be no joy in the ceremony, only dread and guilt at not being by Holmes's side. "I care not about Arthur's wedding nor do I care about anything but—"

"The man has not contacted you in several years John," Anne said fiercely. "He did not have the courtesy of attending our wedding nor did he even congratulate you on Arthur's birth. I would hardly be dashing off to hold his hand at the moment he summons you."

"He did not contact me," I barked savagely. "This telegram is from his brother! Do you not understand that? The man is not even well enough to—"

"Regardless of his condition, you have certain familial obligations which must be met. Once they are finished, I do not care if you run off to Sussex to be by your friend's side."

"Do not dare to speak to me as if I am some kind of ill-tempered child Anne," I growled. To prove my point, I stood up and grabbed my Bradshaw off my desk. I began to hurriedly flip the worn and yellowing pages in attempt to find some mode of transport to the Sussex Downs.

"If he is dying," Anne said, her voice matching mine in coldness, "he has lasted this long. Surely he can last two more days so that you may see your only son married. He denied you enough pleasures during your life. It would be selfish of him to deny you this one as well."

"He denied me nothing!" I, who had never raised my voice to any female, found myself fairly screaming at the woman in front of me. "If anything, my very life has been enriched by his presence. As my wife, you should understand that better then anyone. Mary certainly did."

"I am glad to hear myself being compared to the former Mrs. Watson in such a manner," she said, her voice acerbic in the extreme. "Had she and your daughter lived, would you be missing her wedding for the siren call of Sherlock Holmes? Or, is it only because you had a son with me, your second wife, that you would—"

"How could you even say such a thing, you who know the pain of my grief all too well? I have never maligned your husband's memory in any way and I do not appreciate you—"

"That is because, as much as I loved Walter, I moved on with my life! My God John, it seems as though, despite my love for you, you still cling to all the shadows of your past. You stand there chastising me, but you forget that I never even met the man in question. You accuse me of being insensitive to your dead wife's memory and yet, I feel as though I am constantly living with the woman! I do not still keep photographs of Walter on my bookcase!" As a way of emphasizing her point, Anne pointed to my bookshelf where I kept my only photograph of Mary—the one from our wedding day taken so many years ago. "And now, despite everything we've been through together, everything we've struggled to build together, you want to throw it all away because of a fourteen word telegram? Dear Lord man, does my love and the love of our son mean nothing to you compared to the phantoms in your mind?"

I closed my eyes in the face of her painful rage. She was right; I knew it in my heart and could not debate that with her. Whenever I looked at her, I did still see Mary's light blue eyes twinkling from beneath two blonde eyebrows so finely drawn they might have been made with Indian ink. As I watched my son grow from a gangling youth into a strapping young man I could not help but wonder what my daughter would have been like if she had ever made it into this world. I was suddenly so tired that the Bradshaw literally slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. Anne was at my side in an instant, her strong arms thrown about my shoulders, supporting me so that my aching limbs would not give way beneath the strain and send me toppling to the floor.

Her eyes, which had been so full of anger moments before, cooled and were filled with the same love I had known the first moment I ever gazed into them. Her lips briefly brushed my temple. "I'm sorry," she whispered into my ear. "I know I should not get you so upset."

"It's all right," I whispered, barely having the strength to say anything louder. The weight of grief was literally crushing my breast.

"Stay for Arthur's wedding John," Anne said, as she led me to my favorite armchair. "And then, I will personally see that you get to Sussex as quickly as possible. Please my dearest, if you do not do this for me, then do it for our son."

Without thinking I muttered a consent. My last thoughts before slipping into the welcoming arms of Morpheous were for Holmes to stay alive until I could see him again.

The next few days were a blur for me, Mycroft's terse message hung over my head like a piece of lead. I know I attended my son's wedding, but as the priest was speaking about unending vows, I knew, were Mycroft's words correct, I would be seated in another church soon, with quite a different type of mass being said. Such a thought was enough to drive all joy from the occasion and make it, in my mind at least, a grainy film barely able to be recalled.

My wife, however, was true to her word and the day after Arthur's wedding, she helped me to Victoria with a carpet bag in hand, kissed me farewell and told me to stay as long as Sherlock Holmes needed me. I do not, with any clarity, recall my trip to Sussex, but I do recall the first words I heard upon exiting my train.

"Doctor I hardly hoped that you would come," were the first words I heard when I stepped foot on the platform in Sussex.

"Don't be daft, of course I would," I replied angrily.

"I'm glad my wire reached you in time," Mycroft Holmes answered, grabbing the small suitcase from my severely arthritic hands. Although he was several years my senior, the elder Holmes seemed not to suffer, in the least, from the ravages of time. "I paid for express but I see—"

"I came as soon as I possibly could," I barked. "Although I wanted to, there was no possible way I could have left London any earlier."

Mycroft looked at me, for a moment, before hailing a motorcar. "It doesn't matter," he said when we had both taken our seats within the contraption. "The important thing is that you arrived and arrived safely."

"What's happened?" I asked when we were finally heading towards my friend's homestead.

In an instant, my companion seemed to age before my very eyes and he let out an extremely despairing sigh. "I was contacted, some weeks ago, by his housekeeper, Mrs. Turner. My brother had become gravely ill," Mycroft said softly. "As you know, I hold an important office in the government and didn't want to leave whilst England was in such a state of disarray, but the woman was most insistent. I had boarded a train, swearing that the woman was suffering from hyperbolic sentiments. We both know, after all, that my brother has quite a flair for the dramatic. I was quite prepared to reach his little home, only to find him suffering from a mild case of influenza, and give him the verbal thrashing he would have deserved." The elder Holmes paused for a moment and passed a great, meaty paw across his eyes and took a deep, halting breath. "How I wish that was the case!"

"How bad?" Seeing how distraught the usually self-contained man seated next to me had become, cold fear grasped my heart.

"Doctor Watson, believe me when I say I wish I had never entered that damned house."

"What's he suffering fr—"

"Cancer, of the lungs."

It felt as though a great fist had crashed into my gut and all air exited my lungs. "Are you certain?"

"Quite. He—he has been deteriorating rapidly," Mycroft said, his voice soft.

"Is he lucid?" I was glad to hear my voice still held a modicum of its professional tone.

The elder Holmes sank back against the cushions of the car and once again squeezed his eyes shut. "Some of the time," he replied. "But, there are moments, when he sees things—things that are not there."

"Such as?"

"I do not know how much Sherlock has told you of our past," Mycroft said.

"Very little, I can assure you."

Mycroft nodded. "We had an elder brother, Sherringford."

Although I should have been surprised, I wasn't. After all, it had taken me several years to learn that my friend had even one sibling. "I did not know."

"Sherlock was very fond of him," Mycroft said, his voice soft with reminiscence. "As was I, of course. But Sherlock and he shared a special bond, one I cannot even begin to understand."

"What happened to him?"

"To put it simply Doctor, he was murdered. The man was never caught."

"You have my sympathies, I assure you," I said softly.

"Perhaps now you can understand why Sherlock chose the career he did."

I nodded as various puzzle pieces of the man's life began to fit seamlessly together. "Yes. But why tell me this now?"

The elder Holmes cleared his throat and when he began to speak, his voice was thick with suppressed sobs. "He calls out, at night. I've been staying here instead of London because as I said, I doubt he will last the—regardless of that, he…he calls out for our brother. And swears that he sees him."

Rapidly, I blinked my eyes to keep the tears that were burning them from falling. "It is quite common," I said in my best professional tone, "when one is approaching death, to imagine loved ones, whom have passed on, are near you. My own Mary…" I allowed my words to trail off when the first stirrings of a sob entered my voice. I forced down the lump that suddenly constricted my breathing. "She kept seeing her father. When she finally passed from this world," my voice broke but I forced myself to keep speaking, "I believe she thought she was going to meet him. As difficult as it was for me, I believe she was comforted by these hallucinations."

Mycroft nodded, swallowed, but said nothing, for which I was extremely grateful. I did not need false sympathies from a man I barely knew at a time when my life seemed to be spiraling out of control. "Comforting?"

"I believe so, yes."

We lapsed into an uncomfortably strained silence, which was only punctuated by the sound of the car motor as we sped deeper into the Sussex Downs. At length, it was Mycroft Holmes who broke it. "Doctor, may I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"How much longer is he going to suffer?" Suddenly, the dam of emotions the man seated next to me constructed sprung a leak and great tears rushed down his cheeks. "I cannot watch him like this Doctor," he cried. "He's no longer my brother. He's—he's—" Sobs began to choke his words until he was reduced to nothing but hitching breaths. Acting on pure instinct alone, I placed a comforting arm round his beefy shoulders. The gesture, which was meant to be calming, only caused the large man to grow more upset.

"It's going to be all right," I whispered as soothingly as I could. It was an unnerving experience for me. After all, neither brother was an emotional man and for the self contained Mycroft Holmes to be reduced to tears, then all did not bode well for my dearest friend.

****

When I walked into the sick room, memories assaulted me at a rapid pace. The darkened room, with only the faintest of candle light casting eerie shadows on the walls reminded me of the last few moments I spent with my darling Mary. There was no sound in the room, save for the rasping breaths of my dearest friend.

Quietly, I approached the bed where I saw the remnants of the once powerful consulting detective. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent and he was so thin that his bones protruded violently from beneath the papery skin of his face.

"Duh—do my ears duh—dec—decieve me or is…that…the….truh—head of…Wuh—Watson that I huh—hear?" He was so weak he could not even open his eyes.

"My dear fellow." My knees no longer supported me and I collapsed, quite unceremoniously, into the chair beside his bed. Without thinking, I clasped one of his leathery hands in my own and squeezed it gently.

The ghost of a smile played across his blue tinged lips but disappeared so quickly that I couldn't be sure I didn't imagine it. "It—It's all right…Watson," he rasped. "It—it's nuh—not….not so…buh—bad."

"Holmes, why didn't you tell me of this sooner? I would have been here—"

"Yuh—you have…a luh—life…old fellow. A wuh—wife…if I remember…correctly. A suh—son too…do yuh—you not?"

"Yes," I whispered. I was afraid if I spoke any louder the tears I was attempting to hold back would come rushing out. "He was married on Tuesday."

"Cuh-congrat—A guh—good…luh—lad I…assume?"

I nodded once again. "Yes."

"Fuh—forgive muh—my luh—lack of atten—"

"Don't be foolish," I clutched his hand more tightly. "You attended neither of my weddings, why would I entertain the thought that you would attend my son's?" When no barb rose to his lips I forced myself to rapidly blink away tears. "But none of that matters now, does it. I would have left them both in an instant—wedding be damned—if only I had known the severity of—Do I really mean so little to you that you—"

"Muh—my duh—dear…Watson, surely…yuh—you of all…people…know my…regard…for…you. I huh—have put you…through…so muh—much…puh—pain…I wuh—wanted to spuh—spare yuh—you…spare you from…this. Muh—Mycroft…he muh—must have—"

"Thank God he did," I whispered savagely. "Do you know how I would have felt if I didn't know of this sad fate that has befallen you?"

"Muh—my duh—dearest Watson…I am suh—so…sorry."

I swallowed deeply and brushed back a lock of silver hair that had become plastered, with sweat, to his forehead. "There is nothing to apologize for. I'm here now—we're together again—and that's all that matters to me."

"Wuh—Watson…everything I huh—have duh—done…to yuh—you…Smith…Moriarty…cuh—can yuh—you ever…forgive me?"

I kissed his temple, an action surely driven by grief, and once again smoothed back his hair. My touch seemed to somewhat comfort him. "Let's not talk of that now. You are and always will be my dearest friend. Surely you, of all people, know that."

"Yuh—you're too…too guh—good to muh—me Wuh I—" Suddenly his words were cut short by a violent convulsion. He clenched his jaw against the waves of pain that were assaulting him and he squeezed my hand so tightly that I began to loose feeling in the appendage.

"Easy Holmes," I murmured as gently as I could. "It'll be all right."

"Watson…the pain…I can't…" against his will, tears began rushing down his sunken cheeks. "Please…as my friend…kill me."

I shook my head hard enough to throw off my equilibrium. "You know I cannot do that Holmes."

"Watson…I…" another spasm ripped through him and he clutched my hand tighter. When his pain filled grey eyes stared at me, I forced myself to look away.

"This is only temporary my dear fellow," I said, forcing any hint of sorrow out of my voice. "It will pass soon enough. You'll be fine in a matter of minutes."

"I wuh—want to duh—die." The flatness of his tone cleaved my heart in two. The strong medical façade I had been hiding behind suddenly broke and I was acutely aware of an intense pain ripping through my slowly failing heart.

"This is only a case—a game. You're pretending."

He forced a chuckle and gently stroked the top of my hand with his thumb. "The guh—game—it ended luh—long…ago…yuh—you always been…bad liar…worse actor."

I chuckled and blinked my eyes against the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks.

"Watson?" His voice suddenly rose to a panicked pitch. "Watson?"

"I'm right here Holmes. I'm not going anywhere."  
"I…can't see…where—"

"But you can feel. Can you feel my hand?"

He was silent for a moment. "Nothing…pain…buh—burning…" suddenly, an animalistic cry issued from his throat and he clutched my hand so tightly it went numb. "Oh God Watson!" He began to thrash from side to side as though in the throws of some epileptic fit. Although I had seen many horrible things as a physician both in my own consulting room and on the battlefields of Afghanistan, nothing in my ken had ever filled me with such fear. As I helplessly watched his convulsing body, I realized just how far gone my friend truly was; the masks he wore and his pride were torn from him, leaving him completely vulnerable and reacting on feelings alone.

I heard pounding feet on the floorboards but I ignored them. I knew it was, most likely, Mycroft Holmes rushing to his brother's aid, so I chose to focus my energies on comforting my friend.

"It's all right Holmes." I released his hand and attempted to pin his flailing arms to his sides. When I could not accomplish this without doing injury to both myself and to him, I pinioned my friend beneath me. Now, unable to physically move, his body trembled violently and he moaned in both agony and defeat; he realized, quite suddenly, that even his strong will could not help him escape the pain. Using one of my shaking hands, I rhythmically began to stroke the hair from his sweaty brow. "You're going to be all right."

My ministrations had somewhat of a calming effect on my friend and his body slowly began to relax. When his tremors ceased, I carefully moved off of him.

"Watson," he whimpered when I had vacated the bed. I needed a moment to collect myself before I faced him again. "Where are—"

"Doctor are you—"

"I'm getting something for the pain," I said to both Holmes brothers. "I shall be back in a moment." Quickly, I vacated the sickroom and hurried to where the elder Holmes had placed my things. Without allowing myself to think, I rummaged through the black medical bag I had brought with me until I found a syringe and a bottle of morphine. My hands shook as I filled the syringe with the opiate. Even though my friend was close to death, I still hesitated to inject the drug into his body, remembering the difficult time I had had breaking him of that destructive habit. When the syringe was full, I took a deep breath and returned to the sick room.

Much to my surprise, the scene had not changed in the few minutes I had left it. Mycroft Holmes stood by the door, rooted to the spot by a mixture of grief and fear as he stared at his younger brother whimpering and thrashing on the bed. I patted his beefy shoulder as I passed, and resumed my place by Holmes's side.

Gently, I pushed the blanket down from the top of his emaciated frame and rolled up the baggy sleeve of his nightshirt. I forced my tone to be light. "I needn't tell you that you'll feel a slight prick."

When he did not respond with a sarcastic barb but rather with a moan of pain, I knew his time on this earth was growing ever shorter. With less then steady hands, I injected the morphine into his bloodstream. After several minutes, a shaky sigh escaped his parched lips.

"Tuh—two fuh—familiar…friends…eh Wuh—Wuh—"

"Hush now," I admonished when I realized he did not have sufficient breath to say my name. "You must rest and save your strength. There's a good fellow."

"Wuh—"

"Rest Holmes." My voice was on the verge of breaking and I tried my hardest to combat the emotions that were raging inside of me.

"Puh—please duh—don't luh—leave."

I sat down in the chair next to him. "I'm not going anywhere my dear fellow," I said gently. I took his hand in mine once again and squeezed it gently. "I shan't go anywhere for a long time."

"Thuh—they cuh—come at nuh—night," he murmured, his eyelids growing even heavier from the Morphine.

"Who does Holmes?"

"Buh—bad…things. Fuh—father cuh—comes at night."

I shot a questioning glance at Mycroft, whose face, if possible, grew even paler after hearing the admission.

"I'm here Holmes," I reiterated.

"Huh—he hurts…muh—me."

Once again I rapidly blinked my eyes. "I won't let anything harm you Holmes. You can sleep easy, I promise."

"Muh—Moriarty…huh—he—"

"No one will hurt you Holmes," I whispered gently. "You may sleep without a worry. I won't allow anyone to come near you."

"Puh—promise?"

A solitary tear slipped past my guard and rolled down my cheek at his childlike fear. "I swear it on my life."

"Guh—good…old Wuh—Watson," he murmured. "Guh—good old…" his words tapered off as he drifted off into a morphine induced slumber.

After several moments, I disengaged my hand from his. I brought it to my face and allowed myself to cry into it. All the tears I had been holding back suddenly rushed down my face, leaving scalding marks upon my skin. My entire body rocked with suppressed sobs and I knew there was nothing I could do about the pain that pierced my heart.

"Doctor?" I heard the word and simultaneously, felt the weight of a great hand upon my shoulder. I raised my tear-streaked face and stared into the wet eyes of Mycroft Holmes. "Is he—"

"I gave him an injection of Morphine," I said, hastily wiping my own eyes. "It'll help ease the pain he's experiencing."

Mycroft nodded and once again looked at his brother, an expression of complete fear etched into his features. "I thought…" he shook his head and I watched as his body shivered with grief. "What can I do for him?"

"I'm afraid there's nothing more that can be done," I said gently. The words affected me just as much as they wounded the man to whom I was speaking. "We must keep him as comfortable as possible."

"You'll keep him drugged?"

I shook my head in the negative. "I will try my best not to. He was dependent on them for much too long in life. I will not have his…" I could not bring myself to utter that life changing word. "I will not have him…leave this earth with their aid."

The elder Holmes nodded gratefully. "Thank you."

We sat for some moments in tense silence, the only sound breaking it was the ragged breathing of my closest friend. "It's not unusual," I said, breaking into the elder Holmes's thoughts, "as I said before, for someone in Holmes's condition to experience hallucinations."

Mycroft nodded. "So you said."

I nodded. "I've never heard of any of these hallucinations harming—"

"If you knew anything of the man laying there, you would not be surprised," Mycroft said sharply.

I raised my eyebrows. "Pardon? I believe I know the man as well, if not better then you do. After all we—"

He shook his head and dropped a powerful hand on my shoulder, silencing me. "I did not mean offense Doctor," his tone was gentle and apologetic. "The stress of the situation—it has made me say things I ordinarily would not."

"I understand," I murmured quietly. I watched as Holmes moaned slightly in his sleep and shuddered to think what the next several hours would have in store for us. Holmes and I had seen many adventures together, we had tackled some of the most dangerous criminals known to man and yet, despite all of that, I had this odd, childlike feeling that we were both, some how infallible. Sure Holmes had made some grave miscalculations in the past that nearly killed the both of us, and I had thought him dead for three years after Reichenbach, but I still held on to the ridiculous belief, especially after his miraculous resurrection, that nothing could defeat us. Watching him lying in bed, looking like little more then a skeleton, I realized that the murderers we faced really were not a threat to us. Holmes was invincible to everything except to the weaknesses of his own body. Who would have guessed that the killer of the world's first consulting detective was not a knife wielding murderer but simply a collection of tiny, mutated cells? I certainly never would have believed it.

"He overcame so much," the elder Holmes whispered more to himself then to me. It seemed as though our thoughts somehow converged and we were suddenly thinking along the same lines. "My brother was always a fighter," the first stirrings of a sob began to enter Mycroft's voice, "he fought against father, even though he was powerless against him. He fought on behalf of England to ensure her safety. He fought scoundrels of all forms when he was still in active practice. Why isn't he fighting now?"

"He's mortal," I whispered softly.

Mycroft Holmes jumped at the sound of my voice. "What?"  
"Your brother could defeat any man he came across because he had the tools with which to do so. He had the intelligence. He had the cunning and most of all, he had the strength. This villain is silent and does not give its victim the time to gather any tools that might be necessary to defeat it. It is silent and quick. It will attack your weakest and most powerful areas at once—in Holmes's case it has attacked his lungs and his great brain—leaving you weak and powerless. This villain likes to torture its victims, keeping them alive but barely. Your brother put up a gallant fight, to be sure, but this time, the villain was no match for him."

"When will this hold on him be released?"  
I shrugged my shoulders and, using as much will power as I could, prevented my own tears from falling. "There is really no knowing," I admitted. I started at the shell of the once powerful consulting detective. "Judging from his condition, I doubt it will be long. There is only the finest of threads connecting him to us now. And the thread is so delicate that it could snap at any time."

"Only a thread?"

I nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so." I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the back of the chair. I did not want to face what was coming next. I cleared my throat and forced myself to remember that, despite the intense grief I would feel with my friend's passing, the man seated next to me was going to be far more affected. I knew I needed to be strong—or at least a competent physician—for Sherlock Holmes's elder brother. With my eyes still closed, I could hear, with great clarity, the rasping, struggling breaths of the detective and wondered to myself how it was possible that the man's lungs were even functioning the limited amount they were. It was when I heard the very organs begin to bubble that I sighed heavily. "I think," I fought to keep my voice neutral and professional, despite the grief I was feeling, "it would be best if we made whatever peace with him we need to. The thread is unraveling even as we sit here."

My eyes snapped open at the wet, hiccupping groan that suddenly filled the room. My first thought was that the elder Holmes had suddenly succumbed to the stress of the situation, but I quashed that when I saw him staring at the bed, his face white and haggard, his eyes filled with a mixture of intense sadness and even stronger fear. I allowed my eyes to follow his and I found myself staring into the depths of those all too familiar steel colored orbs. Although the light within them was dimmed considerably, the gaze of Sherlock Holmes was unwavering to the last.

"My dear fellow," I whispered softly.

Another half-groan, half-sob issued from the man and I felt my heartstrings tear at the sound. I looked at his brother only to find his eyes filled with tears that he refused to let fall. I stood, on less then steady legs, and patted Mycroft on the shoulder. "I'll give you some time alone with him."

"No," Mycroft whispered, grasping my hand tightly in his own. "No, that won't be necessary."

I bent lower, my arthritic knees popping loudly in protest of the movement, so that I was level with the man's ear. I pitched my voice low enough so my words would not be overheard by my patient. "He is on the verge of dying," I rasped. "You are his brother. Surely, it is best, if you spent your last moments together alone."

Wordlessly, Mycroft shook his great head. "It is true," he said in an equally low voice, "that I am his brother in blood. But you, my dear Doctor Watson, are a truer brother to him then I. I will speak with him now, but when the time comes, it is you who should be with him. Besides Sherringford, you are the only person in this world who can give him any sort of comfort."

I cannot deny the fact that I was deeply touched by the elder Holmes's words. However, my strict sense of propriety caused me to doubt the sentiments. If anyone deserved to be with Holmes the moment he breathed his last, it was his own brother. Mycroft, however, seemed to sense my distressed because he forcefully tugged my hand, causing me to go slightly off balance. "Sit, please Doctor."

I resumed my chair and closed my eyes, steeling myself for whatever words the elder brother chose to speak.

There was silence for a long moment and then Mycroft cleared his throat. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

A groan from the bed indicated that he did.

"Sherlock I…you did your country a great service through your work. I'm certain that England will never forget you."

My eyes snapped open at such a cold sentiment and I glared at the man who was trying, in the face of his brother's death, to maintain his composure. "Need I remind you that this is probably going to be the last conversation you'll ever have with him? I would think it would be a bit more appropriate to say something besides praise him for his service to his country."

If possible, Mycroft's face grew even paler. It was then I realized just how foreign emotions were to the two brothers before me. What kind of childhood did they have where even a simple expression of love was to be avoided at all costs? The elder Holmes glanced at me, nodded, and passed his tongue over his pale lips. "England will never forget you," he reiterated slowly, "and neither will I." Then, after taking a deep breath, he whispered, "Ego diligo vos frater mei."

Without another word, Mycroft stood and, after staring at his brother one last time, quickly exited the room, leaving me and my dearest friend together for the last time. My eyes brimmed with tears at the last thought and it took me a few moments before I could control my careening emotions.

"My dear fellow," I whispered, once again taking his leathery hand in mine. "My dear, dear fellow."

"Wuh—"

"Easy," I said, interrupting him. "You mustn't talk. You need to save your strength, there's a good fellow."

Ever the master, Holmes weakly shook his head. "Wuh—Watson."

"Hush now, I'm not going anywhere." I leaned forward and stroked his silver hair.

"Wuh—Watson I—"

Although his words were cut off by a severe bout of coughing, the sheer terror in his dim eyes spoke volumes. "I know," I said, squeezing his hand gently. "I know, but you—you won't be alone Holmes. I'll be right here with you until…" I squeezed my eyes shut stopping the tears. There would be time enough for my own grief. "Until you choose to go."

Holmes closed his grey eyes for a moment and then, through sheer willpower, forced his eyelids open again. Although he tried, he couldn't seem to focus on me. I knew he did not have much time left.

"Yuh—you don't have to keep fighting for me Holmes. Do you understand? You don't have to keep fighting."

"Muh—Mycruh—"

"Will be just fine. I'll take care of him, have no fear about that. And your bees too. I'll ensure they are tended to and well looked after." I knew I was babbling but I didn't care. "I'll make sure that all of your sensitive case notes are destroyed and I will even give your housekeeper, should she wish to accept it, a position within my own home. All will be well Holmes, you needn't worry."

My friend struggled valiantly to keep his eyes open. I think, he realized on some level, that if he were to close them, they would never reopen. "Wuh—"

I stroked his hair and gently caressed the side of his face. "You can let go Holmes. There's nothing else on this earth for you. You've solved all the mysteries you could. Now it's time for you to solve the greatest one of all time. Your work here is finished old man."

Once again, he shook his head. "Wuh—"

"You'll see Sherringford again and your mother," I said softly. "And I'm certain Lestrade will meet you beside Saint Peter with some vexing problem he cannot solve."

That remark brought the faintest of smiles to his trembling and bloody lips.

"And, if you would oblige me, please give my love to Mary should you see her, and my daughter."

He tried to nod, but did not possess the strength. Again he struggled to keep his eyes open. "Why are you fighting Holmes?"  
"Yuh—you," he murmured.

"Me?"

Suddenly, something he had said earlier had clicked in my mind. _I did not want to cause you any more pain. _"Oh Holmes," my voice broke on his name. "Do not stay because of me old fellow. I understand you need to go and I'll be fine. I'm certain I'll be joining you soon enough with the condition of my heart."

He frowned, but I pressed on. "I've forgiven you, years ago, for whatever wrongs you believe you've done me. I hold nothing but the highest regard and…and love for you my dear friend. It is killing me to see you struggle like this. Let go Holmes, if for no other reason, then let go for me so I do not have to keep seeing you in such pain."

"Yuh—your fuh—"

I understood his rough request and hunched over the bed so that we were eye level. Briefly, I brushed my lips over his temple, kissing him gently. Then, I locked eyes with him, forcing him to see me. "I love you Holmes."

He squeezed my hand and then breathed out his last. "Wat…son…"


End file.
